


The Werewolf, the Witch, and the Winter Wind

by Dorksidefiker



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU, Always-a-girl, F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-25
Updated: 2012-12-25
Packaged: 2017-11-22 09:35:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/608366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dorksidefiker/pseuds/Dorksidefiker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter Hale is up to something, there's a witch running around Beacon Hills, and Stiles is just trying to cope with being Lydia's personal Barbie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> A thousand and one thank yous to my super-hero of a beta reader, TheSterekCaptain, who fought through lack of wifi and my own fail-ness to make sure you all had something coherent to read, and my Artist for the Teen Wolf Big Bang, the wonderful Kironomi, who's art can be found [here](http://kironomi.livejournal.com/4747.html).

 

 

_It starts the way it always does. Leaves crunch beneath her feet as she walks in the woods behind the Hale house. The branches are bare, and Stiles can see the moon looming far too large in a starless sky. This time, it's her father who joins her there, dead eyes glaring with silent accusation as the gaping hole where his vocal chords used to be flutters with the effort to speak. His entrails don't spill out of his ripped open stomach, but that's only because something already ate them._

_When Stiles looks, there's wet blood on her hands, and she can taste raw meat in her mouth._

_She draws closer to her father, mouth gaping open as she goes for another bite-_

Stiles didn't wake up screaming, and she didn't catapult upright, or any of the million stupid things she'd seen people do on TV when they woke up from nightmares. Instead, she lay in her bed and listened to the familiar sounds of her father's routine – swearing at the coffee maker, sneaking some of the bacon he thought Stiles didn't know about – then calmly got out of bed, went across the hall to the bathroom, and gamely tried to puke up her own toenails.

***

Peter Hale was Up To Something.

Deirdre wasn't sure what exactly what her uncle was up to, but she could almost guarantee that he had at least one plan in motion at any given time, probably more.

The problem, not that she would ever admit that there was a problem, was that Deirdre was flying by the seat of her pants and Peter, the bastard, _wasn't_.

Though Deaton was practically a font of wisdom when he wasn't vacationing far from Beacon Hills, there were still things – werewolf things – that he didn't know about and that Peter did. Things that no one had ever had the time to teach Deirdre. The kinds of things no one had thought she would ever need to know. Laura was supposed to be the Alpha after Mom, and Deirdre had been barely 16 when Kate had walked into her life and burned everything to the ground. There hadn't been time before Kate, and there was no one to teach her after, so for all that Deirdre was the Alpha of her broken little pack, she was operating at a severe disadvantage, especially when it came to dealing with Peter.

Deirdre wished, sometimes, that Peter had tried to take power from one of the Alpha Pack, but no – he'd been all smiles and eager to help. Almost like the Uncle Peter she remembered. Almost.

But there was still that barely hidden light of madness in Peter's eyes, that smile that wasn't quite sane, and the lingering stench of decay that clung to Peter like bad cologne. If Deirdre didn't need Peter so badly, she'd have put him down like the rabid dog he was.

But she did need him, and she didn't have time to linger over 'if onlys'. Her Betas had survived the Alpha Pack largely by luck, and luck had a bad way of running out at the worst possible time, so she needed someone by her side who actually knew what they were doing to help her train them. Peter would have to do.

Jackson was adapting best to the training, something that somehow served to annoy Deirdre. So much about that boy set her teeth on edge and made her want to beat him until Jackson showed his belly and pissed himself in submission. He was a privileged, spoiled child used to getting everything he wanted, and sometimes it felt like the universe colluded to help him keep that impression. Lydia was probably coaching Jackson the rest of the time; at the end of the day, she was the brains of that outfit. Unfortunately, Jackson wasn't really meshing with the rest of the pack; he showed throat to Deirdre when he had to, but he was just so sure that he was meant to lead, and no one else in the pack was buying into that bullshit.

Erica was almost as quick a student, picking up pack tactics with relative ease. Unfortunately, while she was emerging as something of a leader, she wasn't very good at thinking a plan through or adapting to sudden changes. And while she and Boyd had largely managed to reintegrate with the pack, no one had forgotten their desertion before the Alpha Pack rolled into town. Too often, Boyd himself held back, more inclined to observe than act quickly, and Isaac was slowly distancing himself from the pack, clearly filled with unspoken frustration with the fact that Deirdre wasn't living up to his expectations. Meanwhile, Peter was _Peter_ , and nobody trusted him, and Scott couldn't seem to make up his mind about if he was in the Pack or not.

They weren't meshing the way a Pack was supposed to, and Deirdre knew there was no one to blame but herself. She couldn't bring herself to trust any of them; Erica and Boyd had already abandoned the Pack once, only crawling back when they had no other choice, and it was only a matter of time before Jackson challenged her for the position of Alpha. The only reason Isaac hadn't jumped ship to Scott's tiny pseudo-Pack was because Scott had once again joined the Pack in the wake of Gerard's return and the Argent's being forced to leave town.

And all the while there was Peter, mad as a shithouse rat and always smiling.

***

“Allison hasn't answered my last text. Something's wrong.”

Stiles sprawled gracelessly on the couch, one foot hanging over the back as she fanned herself with an old newspaper. The air conditioner at the Stilinski house had died a rattling, smokey death just in time for July, and Melissa McCall insisted that the air conditioner at the McCall homestead only be on for a few hours a day in an effort to not sink hopelessly into debt. Scott and Stiles had ended up deciding to use the Stilinski house for their movie day because Scott's mom was working the graveyard shift, and had threatened Dire Consequences if anyone woke her up.

“Dude, chill. You're lucky you get to call her at all.” Stiles shifted until both her legs were hanging off the back of the couch, head hanging low, almost brushing the floor. “She's probably busy learning how much electricity it takes to keep a werewolf down or something.”

“That's not fair,” Scott reminded her softly, looking hurt on Allison's behalf. “She thought she was avenging her mom!”

Stiles was unimpressed, and not at all sorry. “You're not the one she took potshots at because another hunter said the Alpha Pack wouldn't let a person go unbitten. Excuse me if I'm still a little bitter.” Stiles pulled her soda closer, sipping through a partially chewed straw. “I thought we agreed – _you_ don't bring up Allison, _I_ don't bring up Allison.”

“Alright, okay,” Scott agreed reluctantly. Silence stretched out, ponderous and uncomfortable as the _Dinoshark_ credits rolled. Stiles _hated_ it with the kind of deep, burning passion she normally reserved for being forced to sit still or having to sit in class and listen while someone else read aloud from the book; she _wanted_ to talk to Scott. For most of her life, Scott had been the one person she could really talk to about _anything_ , but that wasn't true since Allison started her crusade against werewolves and almost got them all killed in her efforts to get even for her mother's death. Scott had remained her staunchest defender, even after they broke up, even after Allison had declared war on the Pack a second time, even after Allison had nearly killed Stiles and Lydia.

That meant she couldn't tell Scott about the dreams she'd been having, especially not the ones where Kate became Allison, and Scott was strung up like a side of beef in the Argent basement while Allison-Kate dug a knife into his side, amiably catting with Stiles all the while about how Scott was just an animal, and he couldn't really feel pain. 

Sometimes Stiles joined Scott in the chains. 

Sometimes Stiles joined Allison-Kate in taking Scott apart.

Stiles was starting to think she _really_ needed to see a therapist, but how the hell was she gonna explain what was actually going on with her without ending up in a padded room wearing a straight jacket?

Maybe she could get herself one made from gold lamé, like the one in that Weird Al video.

“ _Two Headed Shark Attack_?” Scott suggested with the barest hint of desperation. He'd turned on the kicked puppy look that, even after ten years, Stiles had yet to develop complete immunity to.

“How could I say no to scantily clad teenagers getting ripped apart by bad CGI?”

 

They were watching the kids who were trying to have a threesome get torn apart when the doorbell rang. Stiles let out a groan of discontent from her spot on the floor, raising one hand feebly. “Too hot to move,” she whined. “Sco-ott-”

The puppy dog eyes were back out in force. “I'll buy ice cream,” was his counter offer. “And the little purple sprinkles. You love the purple sprinkles.”

Stiles combed her fingers through her sweaty hair and redid her pigtails, heaving herself off the floor with a groan. “Cherry cheesecake!” she insisted before throwing the front door open.

Lydia Martin's finger was hovering above the doorbell, poised for another push; she looked fresh and cool; completely unaffected by the summer heat. Her strawberry blonde hair tumbled around her face in artful waves that Stiles knew she'd never be able to pull off, even if she ever let her hair get longer than chin length. The sundress Lydia had donned was white and lacy, managing to look demure while still exposing acres of creamy white skin. Stiles had opted for a pair of cut-offs and a t-shirt, but all that showed off was a bunch of sweaty freckles.

If Stiles wasn't still kinda stupidly in love with Lydia, she would have _really_ hated the girl in that moment.

But it was sort of impossible for Stiles to hate Lydia, not when the sight of her still sent Stiles' heart racing. Jackson could glare and growl all he liked (which Stiles found hilarious, since all it served to do was make him look like a cut rate Deirdre Hale), but Lydia seemed to _like_ Stiles' company these days, so Stiles got to spend all the time around Lydia that she wanted. And though it was helping her start to was starting to understand that Lydia was much better in small doses, the thrill of her company still hadn't worn off completely.

Perfect pink lips pulling into a moue of annoyance and Lydia looked at Stiles as if she were a particularly sad museum exhibit – Fashion Disasters of the Early 21st Century, perhaps. But there was a look in her eyes that Stiles had come to recognize as dangerous. 

“Lydia.” Stiles attempted to lean casually against the door frame and of course missed it by a good two inches She stumbled until she caught her balance. “What brings you here?”

Lydia's smile was pure calculation, lips turned up _just so_. “I thought since Deirdre's got the pack running laps or chasing rabbits, you and I should have a little girl time.”

Scott popped his head into the front hall, eyebrows drawn together.

“Scott not a part of the pack this week?” Lydia asked sympathetically.

“What's going on with the Pack?” Scott asked, his tone just short of demanding. Lydia shrugged, making it clear in that single, elegant gesture that the workings of the pack were beneath her and her notice.

Stiles suspected that Lydia could even make a belch look classy.

“Stiles-”

“I'll go have Girl Time, you go find out what crawled up Deirdre's ass this time.” Stiles gestured in the general direction of the Hale house.

“I'll keep my phone on in case you need a rescue,” Scott offered as he slid past Stiles and Lydia.

“My air conditioner's still working,” Lydia pointed out brightly, bringing Scott to a halt.

“I don't suppose I could get in on Girl Time?” he asked.

As it turned out, Lydia Martin was immune to puppy eyes.

***

Jackson landed on his back hard enough to shake dust and ash free from the floorboards. Looking down at the beta Deirdre, not for the first time, regretted ever giving him the bite. Maybe someday she'd be able to beat a little humility into him. Slowly, Deirdre turned her back on Jackson, leaving herself exposed for an attack in spite of her instincts telling her to just rip his throat out and be done with it.

Erica and Boyd had their eyes glued to Jackson to see what he would do, but Peter and Isaac watched Deirdre.

Jackson stayed on the floor until Deirdre grabbed a bottle of water from the cooler and tossed it to him over her shoulder.

Isaac moved to one of the plastic lawn chairs by the window, staring out while Erica and Boyd curled around each other on the bean bag chairs. On the stairs, Peter rolled his eyes.

One of the many problems with the Pack was that they only pulled together during a crisis, and even then only barely. It'd been different before the fire, when her Pack had been bound by ties of blood and love and loyalty. Nothing could have stood against them, and it had taken treachery to bring them down. With this Pack, all it would take was a well coordinated, properly armed attack. Maybe it was just that Deirdre was an awful Alpha. Neither her mother nor Laura had ever needed to raise their voices, let alone their fists, to maintain order.

Deirdre sat on one of the more solid parts of the steps in the foyer with her own bottle of water, waiting for her temper to cool as she felt out her tenuous connection to Scott. He was approaching, running through the woods rather than driving or being driven by Stiles. Deirdre wasn't sure if she was disappointed or pleased that Stiles wasn't going to be there, but at least they would be spared the horror of the girl trying to _help_.

Isaac perked up visibly when Scott hit the porch, getting out of the re-purposed lawn chair as Scott walked through the door. He lingered in the foyer, taking in Jackson still laid out on the living room floor and trying to look casual about it, Deirdre on the stairs, and finally the stacks of building supplies stacked near the door. “Lydia said there was a Pack thing going on,” his voice was full of accusation as he and Isaac exchanged one armed hugs, like he was being deliberately excluded for some nefarious purpose. Never mind that Stiles had repeatedly told everyone who stood still long enough to listen that she and Scott were going to be hanging out, and that anyone who interfered would be finding out first hand just how much Stiles had picked up about wolfsbane over the last couple of years.

Apparently that threat didn't extend to Lydia Martin.

“We're fixing the house.” Deirdre hid her grin behind another sip of water. “You can help Jackson with the roof.”

***

Lydia tugged on Stiles' pigtails, wearing a thoughtful frown. “There's a fine line between sexy cute and 'looks like a twelve year old'-”

“And I'll always be on the wrong side of it,” Stiles agreed brightly.

“Only because you want to be.” Like the sorceress Stiles suspected she was, Lydia made the rubber bands disappeared. “I have seen the potential.”

Stiles had entertained fantasies that had started just like this, but they withered and died beneath Lydia's coolly assessing gaze. “That's entirely Dani's fault. She didn't want me embarrassing the team at the Winter Formal.”

Actually, Stiles had begged the captain of the Girl's Field Hockey team for help when Allison had roped Lydia and Stiles into going stag with her after Scott had been officially banned from the dance. There had been a great deal of gentle mockery involved, but at least Stiles hadn't looked like a complete mess at the Winter Formal. _Everything else_ had ended up a nightmarish disaster, but Stiles had looked good. Peter had even complimented her on her dress.

Stiles had thrown it in the trash afterward.

“At least you had the good sense to listen to her,” Lydia acknowledged, pursing her lips. “Don't you use _any_ concealer?”

“I like my freckles,” Stiles countered. Lydia just shook her head sadly, taking Stiles' chin in her hand and tilting her head this way and that. “Why the sudden interest? I mean, really.”

“Because Allison's not coming back,” Lydia admitted, “and that means you're the only girl-friend I have who knows what's really going on out there.”

“There's Dani.” Stiles would have been flattered by the formal inclusion into Lydia's exalted circle, but she was really kind of caught on the first part of Lydia's statement, trying to make sense of it it. “Wait, what? No, no, no – Allison's coming back. This is just a temporary thing while the Argents get themselves sorted out.”

“There's no way you're _that_ oblivious.” Lydia inspected Stiles eyebrows, clucking her tongue at the array of stray hairs. “Allison and her dad are lucky the head of the family didn't just kill them off after everything that happened. Also? Dani's about as interested in girl time with me as Jackson is.”

“But that's all settled now. Scott and Allison are on the phone all the time-” Only they really weren't. Allison's calls and texts had become rarer and rarer as the weeks wore on and while Scott was doing his best to hide it, he was worried. Officially, they already broken up ( _again_ ), but it had never been like this before. Every time before they'd at least been in the same _state_ , and they sure as hell hadn't actually acted like they'd broken up, like anything had changed. Now? Now they were separated by miles and a family of hunters who were a lot more ready to enforce the 'No Werewolf Boyfriends' rule than Chris had been. All the facts were adding up to something that was going to break Scott's heart. “What've you heard? Scott's been – Allison's not really _telling_ him anything.”

“Situation normal, then,” Lydia noted. “The Argents feel that Allison's dad has been seriously remiss in his duties the last few years, especially when it came to the psycho aunt and Grandpa Crazypants. Well, they're _actually_ mad at her mom since _she_ was in charge when Kate was doing her crazy bitch act and Gerard decided that living forever was more important than anyone or anything else. But since Victoria's dead, all the blame falls on Mr. Argent. Then there's Allison, who they think seems a little too willing to follow the every psycho with an agenda who plays on her desire to feel strong.”

“What about the Pack?” Stiles asked with sick fascination. “Have they said anything? Since Allison's still talking to you, I mean.” Stiles hadn't really tried to talk to Allison since the Argent cousins had swept into town and swept back out with Allison and Chris. Before that, honestly... relations had gotten really strained since Allison's new hunter friends had tried to use Sheriff Stilinski as bait for the thing Gerard Argent had become. When the Argent cousins had come through town, they'd barely paid any attention to Deirdre and her pack, much to everyone's surprise. The thing that worried Stiles most was the thought that they might come sweeping back with fire, silver, and wolfsbane.

“As far as Allison can tell, The Pack is part of _why_ they're so pissed off. Something about stable packs and righteous kills and making trouble where it didn't need to be made.” Lydia got up, wandering over to her vanity and picking out jars and bottles. “Socks off,” she added, giving a bottle of nail polish a shake. Ever obedient to the whims of Lydia Martin, Stiles shed her socks, earning herself a disappointed look from Lydia when the other girl saw the state of Stiles' feet. “You know, _Dani_ keeps her feet nice.”

Stiles shrugged, looking at her ragged toenails and callused soles with no remorse. She played _field hockey_ , for Christ's sake. “Dani's superpower is to be perfect at all times. _Mine_ is to be sarcastic and witty.” Stiles stretched out on Lydia's bed, catching the nail file Lydia tossed her. “Why are you telling me all this?”

Lydia plopped down on the edge of the bed, her eyes distant. “Allison tried to kill me, Jackson... all of us. She lied, and she kept secrets, and I don't think she's actually sorry about anything she did. So I'm not gonna keep her secrets.”

“Ah.” Stiles nodded slowly. “Okay, one more question. Is the pillow fight coming next, or is that more of an evening activity?”


	2. Part 2

“Well, don't you look nice today.”

The pepper spray was in Stiles hand before the sentence finished, and she turned around to face Peter Hale. One spray would leave Peter in a world of hurt even if she _didn't_ get the eyes; Isaac had learned that the hard way during his stint as Deirdre's chief creeper. The smell alone had left him gagging long enough for Stiles to get away.

But Peter wasn't phased. He stayed right where he was, too close for Stiles' comfort, but not so close that he was actually violating her personal space, smiling like a used car salesman or something.

The problem with Peter, Stiles was willing to admit, was that he was too damn useful; setting him on fire was out of the question, no matter how creepy he was. He'd been annoyingly invaluable while dealing the Jackson-the-Kanima, the Alpha Pack, the hunters, and that _thing_ that Gerard became after his failed attempt at becoming a werewolf. And while Peter had danced along the fine line of appropriate behavior, he'd been very careful _not_ to cross it, especially while dealing with Stiles.

He could even be kind of charming for a sociopathic zombie werewolf. He wasn't even that frequent a star in Stiles' nightmares.

But the son of a bitch had attacked Scott, mauled and tormented Lydia, terrorized Stiles herself, threatened Scott's mom, manipulated Deirdre, and driven them all nuts. Stiles fancied herself an easy going girl, but she could not forget, and she would not forgive.

“And how's Lydia doing?” Peter continued amiably. “I never get to see her anymore, and I _do_ enjoy her company. Scot said you two were enjoying some girl time today.”

“ _Peter_.”

Deirdre stood at the top of the stairs, looming like something out of a bad horror movie and Stiles would be the first to admit that she was _very_ good at it. She was tall for a woman, broad shouldered and well muscled, and the gray wife-beater displayed her well toned arms to good effect. Stiles was almost as tall as the Alpha, but nowhere near as filled out. She glowered at Peter through a curtain of black hair, eyes flashing red as her upper lip curled in a snarl. No fangs, but there was just something about the expression that screamed _I am snarling death, rawr!_

Deirdre really did have some really eloquent facial expressions, even if most of them were variants on _I want you dead._

Peter made a show of stepping away from Stiles. “You know, Deedee, I think you could stand to spend some girl time with Lydia. Our mother was always very chic-” And with that Deirdre thundered down the steps, which Stiles realized looked a hell of a lot newer than they had the last time she had been by. Even the hole where Stiles' leg had broken through the rotting boards two months before had been fixed. “And while Erica is very – well.” Peter continued, unphase. “She thinks a bustier and black leather are everyday wear.” He looked positively distressed at the thought of Erica's sartorial choices.

“She pulls the look off _very_ well,” Stiles pointed out. “Admit it, it takes guts and panache to pull off the biker babe look.”

“It's a bold choice,” Peter agreed, nodding thoughtfully, “but it doesn't really say 'Successful Alpha'.” He spread his hands wide, turning his body to follow Deirdre as the Alpha stalked around him. She stopped between Stiles and Peter, planting her feet firmly. “Now, Lydia's a natural born leader if ever I saw one.”

“Go, Peter.” Deirdre's voice carried a soft growl. “Make sure the Pack's working. And leave Erica's fashion choices alone.”

Peter's expression was one of profound disappointment, but he managed one last smirk at Stiles as he went. “Red really _is_ your color.”

“We _could_ invite Lydia over,” Stiles noted with false cheer, rocking back on her heels. “I bet she'd love a barbeque.”

Deirdre stared after Peter, eyes narrowed. “Maybe next weekend. We'll make s'mores.” She murmured, voice so bland that Stiles wasn't sure if she was joking or not. She eyed the top of Stiles' head, and Stiles reached up to touch the alice band perched there, the sprinkling of glitter rough against her fingers. Girl Time had ended with Stiles outfitted in one of Lydia's red camisoles and a lacy white white shrug around her shoulders and that tied below her bust. There was even a hint of cleavage – God knew there were a _lot_ of freckles. Lydia had not so subtly hinted that if Stiles was going to keep hanging out with her, she was going to need more in her wardrobe than flannels and sweatshirts and tees, and there was very likely going to be a shopping trip in her near future.

“How come I wasn't invited to Home Repair Day?” Stiles asked, noticing the freshly applied spackle on the wall. “I'm good at this kinda stuff.”

Deirdre looked pained, no doubt imagining Stiles nailing her hand to a new floorboard. “You look...”

“Like Lydia had her wicked way with me?” Stiles waggled her eyebrows, getting one of Deirdre's _you're annoying me_ frowns. “Which she kinda did. Y'know, Lydia is like a really scary version of those guys from _What Not To Wear_. I think she's gonna be stealing all the clothes out of my closet and burning them next, which is gonna really suck cause I love my clothes and Dad would pitch a fit if I had to replace everything-”

“If you're staying, you're helping,” Deirdre cut in, eying the top Lydia had talked Stiles in to. “We're working on the kitchen right now.”

“There goes the manicure,” Stiles sighed, not a trace of regret in her voice as she followed Deirdre to the kitchen through the living room to the kitchen. The torn up section of the floor where Peter had been buried had finally been replaced, and the hole in the roof had finally been filled in; the tarp that'd been hung up to cover the hole was folded neatly in a corner, some of the stars Stiles had painted on it still visible. She was almost sad to see it come down – she'd put a lot of work into painting that star-scape and the fat, round moon.

Isaac was in the kitchen, tossing torn up floorboards out the back door. He didn't even pause in his work, passing a crowbar to Stiles. “Lydia wanted to play dress up?”

“There was sexy pillow fighting and lip gloss tasting.”

 _That_ got Isaac's full attention, and he turned hopeful puppy eyes on Stiles. Unfortunately for him, Isaac had nothing on Scott. “Pics or it didn't happen. And please, don't spare me the details.”

Stiles tossed the crowbar from one hand to the other. “A lady doesn't kiss and tell,” she sniffed. Isaac looked around the kitchen with a puzzled frown before giving Stiles an innocent look.

“Lady? Where?”

A dark gray t-shirt landed on Stiles' head, blocking her view before she could throw the crowbar at Isaac. “Put it on,” Deirdre ordered gruffly, taking the crowbar from Stiles before it could hit anything or anyone. Stiles wrestled the shirt on over the things from Lydia. Deirdre started ripping out the damaged cabinets, adding to the pile of ruined wood Isaac was tossing into the back yard.

Stiles walked around the pile of rotting wood that took up the middle of the kitchen, looking up at the sounds of Jackson and Scott up on the roof, arguing about something. “Shouldn't you have, I dunno, actual professionals doing this?”

Deirdre gave one of the counters a hard pull, the damaged wood coming apart with a crack. “The Pack built this house, and the Pack will rebuild it.”

Peter, evil creeper supreme that he was, popped up at the back door and narrowly avoided getting a face full of rotting wood from Isaac. “Yes, but Uncle Ambrose _was_ an architect, and at least two of the cousins were carpenters by trade.” Deirdre snarled, yanking another cabinet from the wall. “But all shall be as the Alpha wishes.”

Above them, Jackson yelped in surprise. There was a crash, followed by a series of thumps that ended in Jackson hitting the ground with a dull thud, wheezing obscenities to the sky as he tried to catch his breath. Peter mustered a mildly amused look, and somewhere on the roof above, Erica and Scott were laughing.

***

The main issue with sticking the Betas on Peter Duty, Peter himself recognized, was that not one of the Betas knew the woods half as well as he did. He'd been running in them as both wolf and man for the better part of forty years, and could have slipped away from his tail without any trouble if he wished. But Peter had ever needed to; none of the children could see what Peter saw in the turn of the leaves, or the patterns scratched into the bark, nor smell what he did in the slightest whisper of the breeze.

“Never a dull moment,” Peter murmured, fingers brushing over a rune cut into a tree. Weeks ago, he'd scratched his own message there. The response was disappointing, so say the least. Peter could see Jackson, looking like he would have happily been anywhere else and not even bothering to pretend he wasn't following Peter. Jackson often got stuck with watching Peter – Deirdre made no secret of the fact that it was a punishment detail, and Jackson often drew the Alpha's wrath. Not, Peter thought, one of Deirdre's better ideas, but heaven forbid anyone argue with the Alpha's orders. That suited Peter just fine; of the bunch, Jackson was the least likely to understand what Peter was seeing.

***

Lydia ran her tongue over her teeth, studying the picture Jackson had sent her. “Well, it's _not_ Greek or any of the usual Celtic stuff we've seen before,” she told him. Over the phone, she heard Jackson snort, and she could just imagine him rolling his eyes. “What does Deedee think?”

“I haven't shown her yet,” Jackson admitted, _almost_ sounding guilty. “I wanna know what I'm showing first.”

“Of course you do.” Lydia purred, forwarding the picture, and the others Jackson had sent her of Peter creeping around the woods, on to Stiles.

“We're gonna nail this fucker to the wall.”

Lydia smiled at the fierce joy in Jackson's voice, stretching out on her bed. “So-”

“Isaac said it took less than five minutes for our fearless leader to get Stiles into different clothes.”

“ _Tell_ me it wasn't a bustier and black leather,” Lydia groaned. “I'm trying to break Stiles _out_ of bad fashion habits.”


	3. Part 3

Stiles let Lydia pull her head back, looking up at the ceiling of Lydia's bedroom as the other girl braided her hair. “So the thing you sent me's Norse. It's, uh, supposed to be put over the door of a house to ward off unclean things, so it's a little bit out of place in the middle of the woods... this getting ominous enough for ya?”

“Mm-hm. The stuff under it looks like the things we're used to seeing around the Hale house, the territorial markings – the bit the newer stuff mostly eliminated looks like a 'come say hi' kind of thing. You know, you'd make a stunning red head.” Lydia tied the braid off with a ribbon rather than a rubber band, only to have the ribbon fall right off.

“I always pictured myself as a power blonde,” Stiles retorted. “Remind me when I became your personal Barbie?”

“Couple days ago. So, _Norse_.” Lydia re braided Stiles hair. “Very big on the bloody, horrible mutilations and violence...”

“They'll fit right in around here,” Stiles sighed, leaning into Lydia's fingers like a cat. “How is this my life? I mean werewolves, sure. I'm used to werewolves, I can _live_ with werewolves. I can handle hunters, Alphas, unholy abominations, even _Jackson_. But do we have to add in Norse witches?”

“They might not be witches,” Lydia told her like she didn't actually believe what she was saying.

“They're gonna be evil, milk spoiling, man eating, virgin sacrificing hags who'll kidnap me and beat me black and blue because that is just how my life works.” Stiles turned around so she was facing Lydia, the braid coming undone again. “This stuff's getting really old.”

Lydia made a sympathetic noise, taking Stiles' hands and squeezing them. “At least we'll be getting out of Beacon Hills next year.”

“Do you _really_ think this madness isn't gonna follow me? I'm not getting out of California.” Stiles couldn't help the bitterness creeping into her voice as she reached for her laptop and turned it back on. There were Norse witches to research before they started snatching babies. Research was way better than having to think, anyway. “You're going to-”

“Cal Tech.”

Stiles pursed her lips, scrolling past pictures of Tom Hiddleston. “Okay, you're not going far either, but lets face if, outside the King of the Skeevy Creeps and your boyfriend-”

Lydia grabbed Stiles' chin, giving her a hard look. “You're pretty when you can keep your mouth shut, and the feet must taste awful.” Her smile wouldn't have been out of place on a piranha, and there was something frightening in her eyes. It reminded Stiles of the look she'd worn just before the silver lined bear trap had snapped shut on the leg of one of the invading Alphas.

“Uh-huh.”

Lydia let go, smile still in place. “You should do more to emphasize your eyes. They've got to be your best feature.”

***

“I must say, it's not often I get taken by surprise,” Peter admitted, not flinching at the sight of Deirdre's fangs. He tilted his head back to expose his throat, averting his eyes as he whined softly in submission. Deirdre snarled, her breath hot and damp against Peter's skin until she let him go. Peter stayed on the floor with his throat bared while Deirdre paced restlessly, eyes still red even as her fangs and fur retracted.

“Tell me about the witches,” Deirdre ordered. The rest of the pack watched the drama unfold from their preferred perches, with only Jackson looking anything other than worried. Deirdre was a barely controlling her rage, and they could all feel it. God only knew what would happen if she let the rage run free.

“Not so much a witch as a priestess,” Peter corrected, keeping his tone properly servile, “and just the one.” The look on Deirdre's face was almost comical – it reminded Peter of the way she used to look whenever Laura would pull rank as the older sister. Peter had always found the expression adorable, and not even the red eyes could change that. She looked like she _knew_ the universe was out to make her the butt of every joke, and there was nothing Deirdre could do about it.

“Old friend of yours?” Boyd suggested from his spot next to Erica. Isaac snickered softly, and Jackson bared his teeth briefly, eyes glowing blue in the shadows of the house.

“Well, she's never tried to sacrifice me, but we may want to keep Stiles out of sight the next few weeks.” Peter studied the ceiling thoughtfully. He found himself missing the tarp; there was something oddly comforting about the glow in the dark moon and stars. Peter didn't need to look to know _exactly_ the expression on Deirdre's face – murderous rage and profound annoyance with the Stilinski girl. “I'd suggest hiding her here, but the Sheriff might object.”

Deirdre was back in Peter's face, one taloned hand wrapped around his neck. Peter stayed perfectly still, watching Deirdre through his eyelashes. He could _smell_ the rage on Deirdre, and how she longed to just rip his throat out. Peter knew there might come a day when Deirdre would decide that Peter's knowledge and skill weren't worth keeping Peter alive. He might have claimed ties of family, but Peter knew that those ties had no real hold with Deirdre. He'd lost that when he'd trapped Laura with wolfsbane and torn her open. Deirdre never spoke of her sister, but Peter knew she'd neither forgiven nor forgotten.

“If _anything_ happens because you didn't tell us about this witch, I'll tear you into so many pieces that you'll _never_ be able to pull yourself back together.” Deirdre let Peter go again, yanking her cell from her pocket and storming out. Even from his place on the floor, Peter could hear Stiles complaining over the phone about being interrupted by inconsiderate werewolves who didn't understand how important uninterrupted bath time was to a researcher.

***

“I _mean_ it, Sourwolf. Hell, maybe you'd be less angry if you spent a little time relaxing in a tub. Do you even have running water out there?” Stiles hiked the towel higher on her chest, staring longingly at her bathtub, wet hair starting to cling uncomfortably to her neck.

“I'm working on it,” Deirdre muttered. 

“I'm telling ya, get a professional. My dad and I tried to put in a dishwasher a few years back, and it ended up a _huge_ mess. We had to shell out twice as much as it would have cost to just hire a guy to do it in the first place, and we flooded the kitchen.” Stiles dipped her free hand into the cool water, imagining Deirdre trying to a broken pipe. “Not that you wouldn't look completely hot in a tool belt-” _and a soaking wet tank top._

Now there was an image to hang on to.

“Will you shut up about the plumbing?”

Stiles could picture Deirdre's exasperated expression (right along with the wet shirt and the tool belt, because Deirdre would be totally annoyed about the pipes not automatically doing what she wanted), and she grinned. “That depends. You gonna listen to me about it? Seriously, take a moment to picture Scott trying to fix a sink. I'm thinking Dies Irae playing in the background, the whole room flooding, stuff catching fire...”

“ _Stiles_. Peter thinks you might actually be in danger.”

“You almost sound like you care.” Stiles chuckled at Deirdre's soft growl. “I'll be careful. When am I ever _not_ careful? Don't answer that!”

“I doubt I have enough minutes left to give you the full list anyway.”

“I don't have to take this kind of abuse from you. My water's getting tepid, and I'd really love the chance to cool off before I go back to witch hunting. Just because _you_ bathe in a stream doesn't mean I have to suffer.” Deirdre started to growl something else when Stiles hung up, putting her phone on the skin and sliding back into the tub. The water had gone warm from the summer heat. “God dammit.”

***

The simple truth was, there wasn't _any_ running water in the house, and Deirdre had no idea how to fix any of it. She had retreated all the way to the bathroom attached to the master bedroom for some privacy while she talked to Stiles (or rather, while Stiles babbled about plumbing and attempted to make a joke of the actual issue). Deirdre's own mother had often retreated to the master bath when she wanted to have a conversation with someone and didn't want the rest of the Pack listening in; it'd been far enough from everywhere else in the house that someone could have set off a grenade and no one would notice. Just as well she had; discussing plumbing was very low on Deirdre's list of things she wanted to talk about with the Pack.

Not that she was going to anyone that she couldn't fix the plumbing, ever. Especially not Stiles.

Deirdre shut the bathroom door, grabbing a chair and the tarp she'd taken from the living room. It went up on the ceiling with a brief struggle, the weight of the thing pulling the tacks free more than once before she finally managed to keep the damn thing up. She dropped into the nest of blankets she called a bed, looking up at the painted moon as she listened to the sounds of the house settling. Isaac was getting comfortable in his room, singing something to himself, and Peter was pacing the living room, stopping briefly with each round of the room, the floorboards by the windows groaning beneath his weight. Boyd, Erica, and Jackson had gone home to their families and their running water for the night, and Scott had left hours before them to be with his mother.

Tomorrow, she was sending Isaac to the library for books on plumbing. Then she'd drop by the Stilinski house to get whatever the girl managed to dig up on Norse witches. Deirdre dropped onto her nest, staring up at the false sky until she finally fell asleep.

***

The house radiated blood and ash and suffering.

It was more than just the physical remains left behind; the land, the air _itself_ had been tainted with pain, death, regret and madness. It would take decades for the residue to fade, and that was _only_ if the place was left alone. But it wouldn't be; the house was far enough from the town to allow those who would come to it some privacy, while being close enough that the journey wouldn't be onerous, and the house would call out to the dark things that lurked in human souls, attracting them. Kids looking for a place to party would find their fun turn violent. People looking for a secluded place to do the things they couldn't do in the harsh light of day – they would find their way here, even with the presence of a Pack.

More likely, the Pack would tear itself apart before the year was out, likely in the most literal sense, and that would only feed the growing rot.

The dead thing at the heart of the rot lurked in the shadows of the house, mad and clever and as blood hungry as the ground.

Flint bit into living wood, carving familiar shapes meant to draw cleansing fire.

There was only one thing to do with rot.


	4. Part 4

Stiles was in the middle of making a vegetarian lasagna when her father came home, a case file tucked beneath his arm. “Early night?”

“No bizarre murders, disappearances, or mountain lion attacks. The worst we've got is some funky graffiti.” The case file hit the kitchen table, and Stiles' father leaned over her shoulder. “You know, red meat won't kill me, and I could use more iron in my diet.”

“That's what the spinach salad is for.” Stiles took the filling mix from where she'd set it aside on the counter, pouring a generous layer of tomato, mushrooms, green peppers, and onions over the lasagna noodles.

“With-”

“A little bacon,” Stiles conceded as she layered on more lasagna noodles, followed by the spinach and ricotta. Her father had been good, he'd earned a treat. “It's already made and in the fridge, if you're hungry.”

“Subtle as a 2x4, hon.”

“You don't pay me to be subtle.” Stiles looked up from the lasagna and out the kitchen window... right at Peter Hale.

The pan of lasagna nearly hit the floor when Stiles jumped back with what she would forevermore insist was an understandably startled yelp. She heard the bowl of spinach salad hit the floor behind her, and suddenly her father was at her back, a hand wrapped around her arm as he looked out into the night. Peter, the bastard, had already ninja'd away in the few seconds it had taken for the sheriff to turn around. “Sorry,” Stiles gulped, “squirrel. Big ugly fella. Looked kinda rabid. Maybe we should call animal control.”

Someday, Stiles was going to circle the whole damn neighborhood with mountain ash. Stiles' father squeezed her shoulder and, blessedly, let it drop. Stiles grabbed another layer of pasta, keeping a wary eye on the window, waiting for Peter to skulk back into view.

Scott popped up in the window like a demented Jack-In-The-Box, and the lasagna went _everywhere_.

“Crap! Sorry, I'm sorry!”

“You're gonna be!” Stiles shrieked. There was tomato sauce all over the counter, the floor, and Stiles herself. “Son of a bitch!”

Her father placed his hands carefully on the counter top as he leaned towards the window, unsmiling. “We have a front door, son.”

“Sorry, I was just-” Scott waved vaguely. “Shortcut, then I saw this evil looking squirrel-”

“Do you think this evil squirrel would attack a pizza delivery guy?” the sheriff asked as he looked around at the scattered ruins of dinner. His tone was carefully mournful, but Stiles wasn't buying it for a minute. Her father's stoic expression slowly collapsed into a grin under Stiles' scrutiny.

“At the rate this night is going, it's practically a guarantee.”

***

“Is he still out there?” Stiles whispered. There was something about _knowing_ that crazy rat bastard was lurking in the tree line that made her want to keep her voice down and grab the wolfsbane.

Scott flicked the curtains aside and peered out the window. “Yup. Just when you thought he couldn't get any creepier...”

Stiles joined Scott at the window, trying to make out where Peter was lurking. All she could see were shifting shadows; every breeze changed their shape, and any one of them could have hidden Peter. The bastard could have been lurking anywhere, like an even creepier version of Edward Cullen.

“Like I don't have enough nightmare fuel in my life.”

Scott pushed away from the window, smiling his patented 'everything's going to be fine' smile that Stiles didn't buy for a second. “Peter's not a big deal.”

There were days when Stiles really wanted to smack Scott. “Why is Peter creeping around my house?” Doesn't he have a Norse witch to-- oh my God!” Stiles shut the curtains. “I'm a stalking horse! Again!” She threw herself into her desk chair, crossing her arms over her chest. “I'm getting real tired of this shit, Scott.”

Scott studied the shut curtains like he would have happily crawled right out and joined Peter in the yard. “Peter's the one who knows the witch best – look, no one's happy about this, but if you _are_ a target-”

“If I were a witch, I'd go after Peter,” Stiles pointed out, glaring at the closed curtain resentfully. “Make him into a tasteful fur coat.”

“I always figured you'd put him on a leash.” Scott looked thoughtful as he sat on the bed. “He could be your personal attack werewolf. Snark your enemies into submission.”

“I can do my own snarking, thanks.” Stiles leaned forward, fingers steepled as she gave Scott a long, hard look. “You're picturing me in black leather right now, aren't you.”

“I really wish I wasn't,” Scott admitted with a horrified grimace. “This is something that calls for brain bleach.”

“I'd wear red leather, anyway.”

“Please stop,” Scott begged.

“And I'd put Erica on the leash. Or Isaac,” Stiles went on, spinning her chair around a few times. “Not Boyd – he'd snap me in half-”

“Did I do something bad?” Scott whined. “Whatever it is, I'm _sorry_ , and I promise I'll never do it again if you'll just stop.”

***

“I _could_ pick someone else,” the night breeze whispered to Peter, an unnatural chill making his skin prickle. Peter smiled up at the stars and watched his breath come out in little while plumes as a zephyr swirled past his ear. “She's hardly unique.”

“But you've never been one to settle for anything but the best. The freshest, the most pure of ingredients.” Peter could see Scott's silhouette against the curtains. “No, you'll go for this one. The challenge alone is too much for you. You never could handle boredom well.”

The summer leaves dropped from the branches above Peter, blighted by unnatural frost.

 

A slim jim would have been more effective, but she tended to stick to the old ways. She'd been using the lock breaking stave for years, and it had always served her well. Even if anyone searched her, they'd find nothing more incriminating than a whalebone key chain charm. A quick breath, and the Jeep door popped right open.

There were wads of old fast food wrappers littering the floor; the addition of another piece of paper would go completely unnoticed, the curse written in blood hidden by a layer of garbage. The Jeep door shut quietly, and she slid beneath it, taping the tiny clay tablet to the undercarriage.

Peter never even noticed, foolish boy. The wind itself conspired to keep telltale scents from his nose.

Now all there was to do was wait.


	5. Part 5

“Oh. My. God!”

Three days later, and Stiles was ready to tear her own hair out. Erica was leaning against the Jeep, inspecting her nail polish like it held the secrets of the universe. Yesterday, it had been Isaac, and before that had been a day of Scott. And of course, there was the ever present Peter, lurking like the Big Bad Wolf from _Into the Woods_. Stiles half expected him to start singing _Hello Little Girl_ every time he popped up.

None of this was doing _anything_ to help Stiles sleep. She dreamed of cold knives that cut into her flesh, flaying her to the bone while Deirdre burned and burned and _would not die_ no matter how much agony she was in. Stiles woke up with the stench of burning fur and flesh in her nose and a scream in her throat.

“If you've taken my engine apart again, I'm turning you into new seat covers, I don't _care_ if we're supposed to be friends now.”

“Maybe I did, and maybe I didn't. That depends on where we're going.” Erica flipped her hair over her shoulder with an insouciant smile.

“We're not going anywhere,” Stiles insisted sharply. “ _I'm_ going to the movies. _Alone_. Because I'm a big girl who's been able to take care of herself without any help from werewolves for a long ass time. And you're gonna go back to Deirdre and tell her I don't need a babysitter.”

A tiny lie; Lydia was going to be at the movie too, but that was none of Erica's business. The most important thing was that the theater would be cool and dark, and there would be an abundance of popcorn.

“What are we seeing?” Erica chirped.

“There you go again with that 'we' stuff.” Stiles looked up at the clear blue sky. “Why does no one listen to me? Am I talking to air?”

“Do you _really_ wanna be left alone with the King of the Creepy Uncles?” Erica asked, casting a significant glance down the street. If Peter was lurking, about, Stiles couldn't see him, but that was no guarantee that he wasn't there.

Still.

“How about this? You keep Petey busy while I go grasp a bit of normalcy.” Stiles jerked the Jeep door open and climbed inside. Erica had the passenger door open before Stiles peeled away, leaving the werewolf nursing a serious case of road rash and the Jeep door swinging free until Stiles could reach over and close it.

 

 

***

“You let her go?”

Erica poked the already healed flesh on her arm. “It's not like I could _stop_ her, unless you got a good way to explain me ripping apart a car in broad daylight.”

“You should have made sure the damn Jeep wasn't going to run in the first place!” Deirdre snapped, looming over Erica as her eyes glowed like sullen coals. “You're supposed to be keeping Stiles safe, and instead you're here!”

“I don't wanna end up with a face full of Mace!” Erica growled back. “I can handle losing a little skin, but you can pull this Edward Cullen crap by yourself before I take pepper spray for you.” Erica's expression was resentful. “You didn't used to get this worked up about Stilinski getting into trouble.”

“That was when Peter wasn't-” _looking at Stiles like she'd make a tasty mouthful._ “Stiles is a part of this Pack, and we protect what's ours.” Deirdre paced the living room, the new floorboards smooth beneath her feet.

“She went to the movies,” Erica supplied. “I'm sure you'll be able to find her all by yourself. Just follow Lydia.”

Deirdre snarled at Erica, teeth lengthening until they pricked her lower lip. Lydia Martin really was a giant pain in her ass, drawing the loyalty of both Jackson and Stiles without any effort. Stiles would go to hell and back for the girl, while the best Deirdre could really expect from Stiles was help motivated by self interest (or a desire to protect Scott, Lydia, or her father). Deirdre knew _exactly_ where she fell on the list of Stiles' priorities.

But Stiles was a part of Deirdre's pack, and Stiles was a target because of whatever Peter had done to bring this witch down on the Pack.

 _A good Alpha doesn't need to raise her voice._ Deirdre could practically hear her mother's favorite bit of wisdom echoing in her head, hitting her like a bucket of cold water.

“You find Peter. I'll deal with Stiles.”

 

 

***

There was a bag of old horse shoes and iron nails sitting on the theater floor between Stiles and Lydia. Stiles shifted uncomfortably in her seat while a pair of impossibly pretty twenty-somethings reliving their teenagers made gooey eyes at each other.

“I'm starting to have flashbacks to Scott and Allison,” Stiles whispered, earning herself an elbow to the ribs as Lydia hissed at her to be quiet. Stiles had petitioned for the action movie with the CGI aliens, but Lydia and the romantic comedy had won the day.

At least with the aliens, Stiles and Lydia could have talked.

A body dropped into the seat next to Stiles, a tanned, well muscled arm taking up the arm rest and almost knocking over Stiles' soda. “Hey-”

“Shh,” Deirdre hissed, apparently watching the screen.

“Oh. My. God!” Stiles shot out of her seat, succeeding in knocking her soda onto Deirdre and spilling her popcorn onto Lydia. “You have _got_ to stop pulling this crap!”

“If this fake butter stains-” Lydia muttered dangerously. “I thought you and your leather brigade had a house to rebuild.”

“Shhh!” A woman in front of them turned to glare at the three girls.

“Bite me!” Stiles snapped back, trying to shove her way past Deirdre. “You too! You can just – no, just get the hell out of my way! Go play with a bear trap!” Stiles finally climbed over the seats, dropping the bag of horse shoes to trip Deirdre up while she darted down the main isle.

“God dammit, Stiles!”

The wonderful thing about being in public was the fact certain werewolves couldn't go all hairy and slam Stiles into walls. Stiles even managed to get by the manager and a couple of badly dressed ushers without having to slow down. Years of field hockey were really paying off, because she was in the parking lot by the time Deirdre made it to the lobby, where she was blocked by the manager. Stiles knew she was going to pay for this stunt later, but for the moment, she was going to enjoy the little victory.

Lydia was gonna scalp Stiles for taking off like that... especially for leaving the horse shoes behind. The plan had been to take those horse shoes and the iron nails up to the Hale house after the movie and hang them up to ward off bad mojo. The rest were going to find their way around the Stilinski house, one more layer of protection.

“Dammit!”

Stiles _couldn't_ turn around, not with Deirdre still menacing the theater staff. She clamored into the Jeep, resentment simmering in the pit of her stomach. “A couple hours, that's _all_ I ask. It's not like I can't take care of myself.” She sighed, clutching the steering wheel tightly, glaring out the windshield. She saw Deirdre come bursting out of the theater; the Alpha looked like she was seconds away from going all Larry Talbot, so Stiles peeled out of the parking lot.

Five minutes later, there were two missed calls from Scott and a text from Lydia berating Stiles for making her miss the end of the movie. But Stiles just kept driving, going nowhere. She couldn't go home; that would be the first place anyone would look, and Scott's was right out for the same reason. Lydia probably hated her again, so that left-

Stiles fumbled for her phone, scrolling through her contacts until she found Dani. “Hey-!”

“Kinda busy here, Stilinski...”

“That's fine, it's all good. I just need-”

“I'm _busy_. I know you all have yet another round of epic weirdness going on, but I really don't have time for it.”

“Just looking for a place to get away from the weirdness for a couple hours. Please, Dani?”

Stiles honestly didn't intend to sound so desperate, but she really _was_. She could make everything up to Deirdre later, when Stiles felt less like clawing someone's eyes out.

“Can you keep yourself entertained?”

“Oh, thank you thank you _thankyou!_ ”

“You can thank me by putting in more practice before the next season starts. I've got my eye on a state championship, and we're not gonna get it if you're dragging ass.”

“Your wish is my command.” Stiles dropped her phone onto the seat next to her purse, doing a quick U-Turn back towards town.

Her tires of the Jeep blew out as they'd crossed the center line, sending the jeep careening off the road, right into a ditch. The world snapped into sharp focus – Stiles' chest hurt from where she'd slammed against her seat belt, her heart was pounding, and there was no way in hell she was going to be able to get the Jeep going. So she was all alone out in the middle of fucking nowhere with something out there that probably wanted to break into her ribcage and pull her lungs out of her back.

Stiles slammed her hand down on the lock and scrabbled for her phone. The spin off the road had sent her phone flying off the seat, right into the rustling layer of burger and candy bar wrappers that carpeted the Jeep's floorboards. “Oh hell no-”

“Ahem.”

Stiles' breath came out in little white plumes as she dipped her hand into her purse, fingers wrapping around the little canister of Mace. She came up spraying when the lock popped up and the door swung open. She saw the Taser just before the tines launched, latching on to Stiles' thigh just below the hem of her shorts.

 

 

***

Lydia joined Deirdre in the parking lot, pausing to peruse some pictures on her phone. “Nice going, Deedee. Since you're here, I thought you might wanna know, I figured out what the other carvings Jackson found mean. If you wanna know.”

Deirdre growled, lip curling up as she rounded on the girl. “Do. Not. Call. Me. Deedee.” Something about the way Lydia looked at Deirdre made her skin crawl, and she wondered if Lydia realized just how much she sounded like Peter at times.

Lydia didn't look the least bit impressed, but Deirdre knew that Lydia made a point of not being impressed by anything. It made Deirdre's skin itch, but then again that might have been the soda drying into a sticky film on her skin. Lydia rolled her eyes and held up her iPhone for Deirdre to see. “Now taken individually, they don't mean much, but when you put them all together-”

“There's something out there that wants to eat Stiles-” Deirdre snapped, uninterested in the pictures on Lydia's phone.

“Yes,” Lydia agreed brightly, “you call him 'Peter'.”

“And now she's run off on her own-”

“Because you're being creepy and controlling.”

“I'm trying to protect my Pack!” Deirdre felt like she wanted to rip her own hair out – or someone else's head off. “But _you_ and _Stiles_ , you insist on running head first into the _literal_ jaws of death!”

“We're big girls, Deedee. Stiles can handle herself.” Lydia sauntered towards her car, eyes on the text. “And the way I hear it, it's usually her saving your ass. Anyway, when you put all the Blair Witch crap together, they're a spell meant to encourage the worst in people, so I'm gonna give you the benefit of the doubt here, sweetie. Peter's little witchy friend has been playing you like a fiddle.”

Deirdre pulled her sticky, soda soaked t-shirt away from her chest, snapping at Lydia. “The only person who calls me Deedee these days is _Peter_.”

It was a low blow, the cheapest of shots, but at the moment, Deirdre would take whatever victories she could get.

 

 

***

Jackson was looking at rows of windows at the Home Depot, occasionally glancing at the list of measurements Deirdre had thrust on him. It was mind numbing, stupid make-work that Jackson had been stuck with because he was the one with the most cash on hand. His cell went off, a picture of Dani in her field hockey uniform with Jackson in a headlock flashing onto the screen. “Tell me something horrible's happening. Get me out of home improvement hell.”

“Stiles was coming over to my place, but it's been almost an hour since she called me. She never showed, and now she's not answering her phone.”

“I thought I said something _horrible_ , Dani. I'd call that a miracle.”

“When Deirdre Hale castrates you for letting her arm candy get eaten, does Lydia get to keep your balls in a jar, or does Deirdre have plans for them. I know you all are at Defcon 5 over whatever's blown into town this time, so I'm gonna check the roads while you deliver the good news. And take a video – watching her kick your ass is hilarious.”

“Love you too.” Jackson hung up, ringing up Scott.

 

 

***

The room was cold enough that Stiles could see her breath rising into the air, a stark contrast to the scotching summer day outside. An attempt to sit up had revealed that her wrists and ankles were tied together, the lengths of rawhide attached to the slab beneath her. The roughness against the backs of her legs told Stiles that she was on stone or concrete. Stiles was betting on stone; the whole set up felt like a slab of stone kind of deal, probably with grooves cut in to channel the blood of whatever poor bastard got sacrificed on it. The ceiling above her was too dark to see properly, but there were rough wooden beams with bundles of herbs and dried flowers dangling from them. She could see the monkshood amongst all the other bundles, and Stiles was pretty sure she could smell something burning somewhere.

The place was probably someone's summer cabins. God only knew what had happened to the original owners.

“You watch _way_ too many bad horror movies!” Stiles barked, grasping on to rage to keep the panic at bay. She squirmed, trying to minimize the amount of flesh in contact with cold stone. A pudgy, pale face filled Stiles' field of vision, mousey hair straggling free from the bun at the top of her head. Watery blue eyes looked down at Stiles, and bloodless lips turned up in a serene smile. “Hello, dear. Feeling better?”

“I'm sorry, I don't talk to corpses,” Stiles disclosed in a stage whisper. “I think it sets a bad precedent, and then I get all sad when I know the name of the person getting shredded by a werewolf.”

“Which doesn't explain why you spend so much time chatting with Peter.” The witch smoothed Stiles' hair back from her forehead in an almost motherly gesture.

“Old friend of yours?” Stiles quipped, silently praying that the witch was a talker. The longer the Wicked Witch talked, the less likely Stiles was going to end up with her lungs pulled out her back.

“He used to be a sweet kid,” the witch murmured sadly, resting her elbow on the stone next to Stiles' head, propping her chin up on her fist. There was a flint knife between her fingers; it seemed to drink in what little warmth remained in the air; it sure as hell sucked up Stiles' attention. “Dying tends to suck the joy right out of a person.”

“I dunno, I think Peter's personality has really improved since he came back.” Stiles tried not to be obvious in her squirming; it was like she'd been chained to a block of ice, and the damn thing only seemed to be getting colder.

“I thought you didn't talk to dead people?” The witch twirled the flint knife between her fingers, smile still serene.

“Can't seem to stop 'em from talking to me,” Stiles couldn't resist pointing out. “Is it me? Do I give off crazy monster attracting pheromones or something? I get that I'm cute-”

“You're pure.”

“Oh no I'm not!” Stiles jerked at the rawhide holding her to the stone. “I'm full of additives and preservatives-”

The witch placed a finger between Stiles' eyebrows, laying the flint knife down beside her head. “You are young, unbitten, talented and technically virginal. Ripe with so much untapped potential.”

“Y'know, this virgin sacrifice stuff is all patriarchal bullshit,” Stiles protested quickly. “It's just one more way for men to keep woman down, and putting so much value on what is really just a social construct is all kinds of – ehehe-- crazy.” The witch twined a lock of Stiles' hair around her fingers while Stiles babbled, picking up the flint knife once more. “You really don't want to do this, I mean have you seen the kind of things the police can do with a microscope these days? They'll track your ass down and then it's the rest of your life in prison cause I don't think we have a death penalty in this state, but that's still ignoring the werewolves who'll be looking to-”

The flint cut through Stiles' hair with surprising ease; Stiles had once tried to imitate the haircut scene in _Mulan_ , and she'd only managed to whack off a couple of hairs with the butcher knife she'd used. The flint just sheered right through, and the witch tossed the hank of hair somewhere Stiles couldn't see, and the stench of burning hair joined the monkshood. “It's that social construct that makes the virgin sacrifice so powerful. There's power in belief is a glorious thing, and so many people believe in the power of virgin sacrifice.” She cut off another hank of hair. “Of course, there's also power in your suffering, can't forget that.”


	6. Part 6

There were dead leaves scattered around the Jeep, and the air smelled like snow, old blood, Mace, and Stiles. By the side of the road, Dani Mahealani paced around her own car, making phone calls and coordinating the search efforts. “I take it we're still not telling the sheriff his baby girl's gone missing _again_ , 'Manuelle'?”

Deirdre slammed the Jeep door shut, circling around it. There had to be some trace of Stiles somewhere, some hint of where she'd been taken.

“Right...” Dani went back to her phone while Deirdre inspected the blown out tiles. Something had been duct taped to the undercarriage, and Deirdre yanked it free with a grunt. The face of the tablet was smooth beneath her fingers, and something that looked frighteningly like the things that had been carved into the trees around her house had been painted onto it with blood. Deirdre tossed the tablet onto the hood of Dani's car, raising her head to try and catch any scent she could catch on the wind. The rest of the pack were already scouring the woods surrounding Beacon Hills, working in teams and keeping in constant contact. Peter was the only one who hadn't reported in yet. “If I were your new playmate, I'd get the hell outta dodge before getting on with the human sacrifice.”

Deirdre growled, softly, enjoying the way Dani flinched away. At least _someone_ had proper respect for Deirdre's power.

“Lydia says this thing you just found is a 'stave' for breaking a horse's leg.” Dani side eyed the Jeep and it's shredded tires. Deirdre closed her eyes, inhaling slowly. She should have bitten Stiles; Deirdre could find any wolf in her pack, but the humans just didn't have the same connection. It wasn't like Deirdre hadn't had the chance, but-

But Stiles would never willingly take the bite, and forcing it on her was just a slow form of suicide. She'd have made a fine Beta if she was willing, but a very dangerous enemy, fighting Deirdre at every turn until Stiles finally found a messy and painful way to kill her.

The stench of old blood moved away from the Jeep and into the woods; Deirdre followed the scent into the tree line, right to a set of tire tracks. The tires were too small for a car, but Deirdre had seen enough ATV tracks to know what they were, and the knew the scent that was mingling with the old blood and lingering exhaust fumes. She took off without another thought, ignoring the Mahealani girl cursing everyone from Stiles to Jackson to Deirdre herself for dragging her out to the middle of the woods when she had a life that _didn't_ revolve around werewolves, and Deirdre really wasn't hot enough to be worth the impromptu hike.

Deirdre wrote it off as the girl blowing off steam. She'd find the tire tracks and tell the others, but there wasn't time for Deirdre to waste.

On top of the stench of exhaust and dried blood, Deirdre could smell _Peter_.

***

Stiles' wrists felt raw and painful, and her whole body was chilled. It was like the slab had completely leached the warmth out of her body while the witch had puttered about the cabin; when Stiles could see her, it looked like she was drawing all over the walls with ashes. “This has _got_ to be the most boring death I've ever been subjected to, and I was once nearly drowned in a pool for two hours. You could at least rant about how you'll show 'em all or how werewolves are beasts that need to be exterminated-”

The witch took a bowl from somewhere next to the slab, putting it next to Stiles' arm. The flint knife flashed into view, slicing down Stiles arm to let blood flow into the bowl.

“Jesus fucking Christ, you bitch!”

The witch clucked her tongue. “You've had worse, I'm sure. It's barely even a scratch. The pain won't _really_ start-” The witch bent to get something from the floor, coming up with a hammer in her hand, “-until I start with this.”

Stiles refused to show fear, still clinging tightly to her anger. She was so damn tired of being the victim every time someone wanted to get their rocks off causing pain. Fear wasn't going to get her out of this, and she wasn't going to give the bitch the satisfaction. “You think this _Misery_ crap scares me? I've seen werewolves with PMS – _that_ is scarey.”

“I'll take the tongue last,” the witch noted casually. “Your screams will sing to the gods.” She took the bowl with Stiles' blood in it away. Stiles could hear something wood being moved.

“You're not gonna get away with this! And oh _God_ now you've got me speaking in cliches!” Stiles whined. “People are gonna know I'm missing by now!”

Something sharp – probably that damn knife – was cutting into wood. “Still looking for a motive rant, dear? All right. It doesn't matter if I die. As long as I can finish this, nothing else matters.”

The cabin door slammed open, a gust of warm summer air swirling through the room. “You always were goal oriented.” Peter sounded almost jovial in the moments before he launched himself across the cabin.

Honestly, as rescues went it kinda sucked. Peter went right for the witch, jumping right over Stiles and leaving her _still tied up_.

“Okay, _fine_! Leave the human sacrifice tied up, she'll be okay!” Stiles snapped, tugging at her bonds. She was pretty damn sure she'd rubbed all the skin off, and-

And then Peter was sent flying across the room, landing heavily enough on Stiles that he knocked the air right out of her. There were wood splinters in his hair, and a sluggishly bleeding gash running across Peter's face that _really_ wasn't healing as fast as it should have. “Some rescue this turned out to be!”

Peter growled, eyes flashing blue briefly as he rolled off Stiles before the witch could bury the flint knife in his back. Instead, it grazed Stiles' ribs and glanced off the slab. Stiles yowled in surprise and pain, going to a full on scream when Peter scrambled over Stiles, grabbing for the witch with taloned hands. They both rolled away, leaving Stiles gasping. The witch and the werewolf knocked into something heavy and metal, and the stench of burning hair filled up the room as Peter howled.

Stiles wasn't inclined towards sympathy when it came to Peter Hale – God knew she'd thought about setting him on fire more than once – but it would have been grand if the bastard could have at _least_ cut the cords binding Stiles before he'd gotten into his wrestling match with the Wicked Witch.

Beneath the acrid stench of burning werewolf hair, Stiles could smell burning wood and rawhide; one more tug and Stiles' wrists finally came free, the rawhide snapping where it'd been burned. She scrabbled for her ankles, clawing at the knot.

Burning flesh added to the smoke filling up the cabin, and it was the witch's turn to scream in pain. Now that Stiles could actually look around, she could see a brass brazier turned over on it's side, red hot coals scattered across the floor. There was a pile of charred boards stacked next to the slab, most likely nicked from the ones ripped out of the Hale house. Some of the coals had landed on the boards, which were starting to smolder, along with an ugly ass old rug that Peter and the witch were rolling across. Peter had his jaws clamped down on the witch's shoulder – the way her arm was hanging, it looked like Peter had snapped the bone. The witch had slashed through Peter's thigh with her knife, which was imbedded near his hip. The wound didn't look like it was healing, but Stiles was actually trying really hard not to actually pay attention. Still, she couldn't help but notice the way Peter had one hand over the witch's eye, and the way smoke was curling up from beneath Peter's palm.

Stiles slid off the slab, snatching up the brazier and swinging it as hard as she could when the witch rolled to the top again. Not a good plan, and she knew it, but there came a point where a girl got sick and tired of being the victim and wanted to strike back.

“Stiles!”

Stiles brought the brazier around, nearly taking Deirdre's head off.

Stiles hadn't realized that the curtains had caught fire until that moment. They were starting to really blaze as Stiles dropped the brazier, and so were the old boards. Deirdre grabbed Stiles' arms and swung her towards the door, already shifting back from woman to wolf. “Run!”

Stiles refused to let go of the sleeves of Deirdre's jacket. “You are _not_ staying in a burning building!” she snapped back, trying to pull the Alpha with her. The bitch could fry and Peter could go crispy critter all over again – Stiles would lose no sleep over that. But not Deirdre. “C'mon!”

Peter and the witch crashed through one of the windows, and Deirdre let Stiles pull her out the door. Stiles could hear Deirdre's phone going off, but whoever it was could wait until they were away from the burning building full of monkshood.

As they stumbled out into the summer afternoon, Deirdre turned Stiles' arm up, exposing the gash the witch had made. Long talons threatened to pierce Stiles' flesh, and Deirdre's growl made her hair stand on end. The Alpha released her arm, giving Stiles a push towards the ATV parked a few feet away. “Go, dammit!” Deirdre ordered again, spinning on her heel to face her uncle and the witch.

There was no sign of either – just blood on the ground and a burning cabin.

Deirdre howled her rage, ripping her phone free from her jacket pocket as it continued to ring. “ _What_?”

Even from where Stiles stood, she could hear the panic in Boyd's voice. “The house is on fire!”


	7. Part 7

By the time the fire was out, there was nothing left of the Hale house but a smoking hole. The fire had burned with unnatural strength even after the fire department had arrived to fight the blaze; it didn't take long for them to make the call, writing off the Hale house and focusing on keeping the fire from spreading to the summer dry trees instead.

Deirdre looked like she'd been gutted; she hadn't said a single word from the time Boyd called to the moment the Sheriff stormed over to where she sat, Stiles uninjured arm draped over her shoulders. The worst of Stiles' injuries were hidden beneath Deirdre's leather jacket; it should have been stifling, but Stiles still felt half frozen from her time on the slab.

“What the hell happened to you?” Sheriff Stilinski dropped to his knees in front of the girls, grabbing Stiles free hand. She managed to suppress a wince, but only just.

“My tires blew out,” Stiles admitted. It was easier to lie when there was plenty of truth to pile on top. “ _All_ of them! Then Deirdre found me and that's when she got the phone call – could you maybe call me a tow truck when you're done here?” Stiles thanked God that she'd managed to snag Deirdre's jacket, hiding the bloody tank top with the way it was zipped up.

“What the hell happened to your _hair_?”

“What happened to my house?” Deirdre croaked, hands shaking as she ran them over her face. “Was it – did someone – _how_?” Deirdre's voice broke, and Stiles could see her father struggling with his sympathy for Deirdre and his urge to protect his daughter and the need to do his job.

“We'll be investigating that, Miss Hale.”

Deirdre looked past the sheriff to the smoking hole. “I finally started rebuilding,” she murmured distantly, sounding young and lost. Stiles' inner pragmatist was screaming that there wasn't time for Deirdre to go all Cuckoo’s Nest, what with the people sacrificing witch still running about like something out of a bad monster movie. Falling apart needed to wait until the crisis was actually over, but Deirdre looked so damn lost. Stiles couldn't bring herself to snap her out of it.

Deirdre had managed, up to the point where they'd actually gotten from the cabin to the Hale house on the ATV, ordering the rest of the Pack to keep their distance until this was settled. Stiles knew Scott wasn't actually going to listen, but he was on Peter hunting duty and Stiles was willing to trust that Isaac would be able to keep him out of trouble.

“Sheriff!” The fire marshal called, waving him over.

“We're not going anywhere,” Stiles assured him, jerking her chin towards the fire marshal, giving Deirdre's shoulder a careful squeeze. “I'm not going anywhere,” she repeated softly to Deirdre.

***

“We couldn't find Peter,” Isaac announced, curling up against Deirdre. The sun was starting to set behind the treeline, and Scott was practically wrapped around Stiles making sure she was okay and binding up her wounds. “Jackson and Erica are still out there looking for him. Boyd-” Isaac squirmed a little, wishing Deirdre would do more than just stare at the black, ash filled hole where the house had been. “He's getting us a motel room until you decide what we should do.”

Deirdre nodded slowly, gently running a hand through Isaac's curls. “We need to find that bitch. I want her head.”

“If we're claiming body parts,” Stiles interjected, shrugging Deirdre's jacket back on over the bandages, “I want her fingers.”

Scott looked from Stiles to Deirdre and Isaac. “What about Peter?” he asked, clearly reluctant to even have to bring the missing werewolf up.

“He knew where Stiles was and he didn't tell us.” Deirdre's eyes glowed a sullen red. “For all I know, this was one of his plots gone wrong.”

Stiles perked up, and if she could have pulled it off without reopening her wounds, she probably would have done a little victory jig. “So we're allowed to set him on fire now?”

A growl from Deirdre would have been better. Stiles could have made a joke out of Deirdre growling. Instead, she just looked so heartbroken and lost. Everything Stiles might have said turned to ashes in her mouth, and she looked down into the blackened hole of the Hale house basement.

“We'll rebuild.”

Stiles turned her back to the pit. “'We'? Are you gonna make us take up carpentry full time or something?”

Deirdre untangled herself from Isaac, shaking her head. “I'll call a contractor,” she conceded, breathing in deeply as she walked to the edge of the pit. “We'll build somewhere else on the property. We'll start fresh.” Deirdre put an arm around Stiles, leading her away as Lydia's Honda Civic pulled up the drive. “Go home before your father comes back here and arrests me again.”

To Stiles' surprise, Lydia was a hugger. “Tell me you kicked the crap outta them for that awful haircut.”

Stiles tried to grin, but she was too tired and too beat up. “Okay, sure. I was like Xena, only with less leather.”

Lydia rolled her eyes, smacking Stiles' shoulder. “At least you'll look cute with the haircut you're gonna need. We'll go to my place,” she added, “and I want details.”

Stiles let herself be lead away, watching Deirdre round up Isaac and Scott and herd them to her Camero. It wasn't until they were out of sight that Stiles realized she was still wearing Deirdre's jacket. “Christ, if this keeps up I'm gonna have half of Deirdre's wardrobe in my closet.”

“That'll make her happy,” Lydia muttered, reaching for the radio.

“Hm?”

“Nothing, Stiles.”

***

There were worse things than an injured werewolf in your trunk, but not many. The eye was going to take forever to heal, and everything in the old Buick stank of burnt flesh.

“You really are just too much trouble, Peter. This is what happens when I teach people anything useful; they go and use it to do horrible things! Once I'm done with you, you're going to regret ever perverting my teachings. The dead should stay dead, but noooo, you just had to go and get back up, didn't you? Do you have any idea what you've done to the very earth you rose from?”

Peter couldn't answer, but yelling at him felt good.

The whole pack would be hunting for her now, but the pack was young and she was old; as long as she stayed well out of their territory, they'd forget about her. The worst of the infection had already been burned away, and with time and care the rest of it would heal cleanly. Not the thorough cleansing she'd planned, but she was adaptable.

Peter was starting to squirm in the trunk. She would have preferred to kill Peter straight off, but there was no guarantee that he wouldn't pull the same damn trick _again_ without a proper cleansing ritual before and after the kill.

 

The Porsche slammed into the driver's side of the Buick, crushing the witch and sending the car rolling off the road.

“Guess Lydia was right on the money,” Erica grinned, grabbing picking up a gas can. “Boyd and Isaac are gonna be sorry he got stuck with the wrong road out.”

“Did we have to use _my_ car?” Jackson snapped back, jogging over to his much abused car. The rock was still weighing the accelerator, and the front end of the Porsche was completely mashed.

“The rest of us don't have cars, douche. Anyway, it's not like you can't afford it.” Erica reached through the shattered window, pushing the witch's head back. “She's still breathing,” she added, emptying the gas can all over the Buick while Jackson pried open the trunk. Erica peered around to look at the bloodied, scorched Peter Hale. “Man, you look like shit.”

“I vote we leave him in there.” Jackson pulled out a package of matches from his pocked while Erica hauled Peter out of the trunk, inspecting the spidery, bloody writing on his chest for a moment.

“Fearless leader's gonna wanna deal with the creeper herself.” Erica draped Peter over her shoulder and started the trek back to the Hale house while Jackson lit the Buick on fire. The witch never screamed, and Jackson didn't give her another thought as he left to deal with his poor, much abused Porsche.


	8. Epilogue

The new house was smaller than the old Hale place, but it had the distinct advantage of not being a burned out shell with a pack of werewolves squatting in it. No, this place was clean and whole... with a pack of werewolves living in it like a bunch of squatters.

“Don't you believe in beds?” Stiles demanded, nudging the nest of sleeping bags in the living room with her toe. Deirdre pretended not to hear her, grabbing one of the paint buckets. “How about a couch? Oh, and a TV! The wall over there would be perfect for a giant flat screen. You could make Jackson buy it.”

“Painting first, then furniture.”

Stiles raked a hand through her hair with a grimace; two months later and Stiles was still surprised to find how short her hair was. Not that she minded that much; the short hair was way less fuss, and there was something about the way Deirdre kept staring at Stiles' neck that she was really starting to appreciate.

Stiles didn't know what had happened to Peter Hale, and ultimately, she didn't care. All that really mattered was that the son of a bitch was gone. The sheriff's department found a burned out wreck on one of the back roads, the body of a woman inside. Eventually, she was identified as Borhilde Selvig from Bangor, Maine. No one ever claimed her, and Stiles wasn't willing to bet that they'd ever find out what really happened to her. Ever week or so her father would pull out the case file, go over the evidence again, but as awesome as Stiles knew her father was, she also knew this case was going to have to stay unsolved.

Okay, maybe Stiles _did_ care; there were way too many unsolved mysteries for her taste, and no one around to give her any real answers. She'd been trying to charm the answer to Peter's fate out of Deirdre, but the Alpha was keeping mum.

Doctor Deaton returned from his vacation and bestowed many a disapproving look on everyone. Somehow, that actually managed to be _worse_ than him lecturing them about how they were all too stupid to live. Someday, Stiles hoped to be just as good at giving disapproving looks; it seemed like a useful skill.

“You helping or what?” Deirdre asked irritably, dragging a step ladder into the living room.

Stiles grabbed one of the paint cans for herself and followed Deirdre up the stairs to the second floor bedrooms. “I am _so_ gonna put a sky on your ceiling, just so you won't miss having a big hole in the roof.”

 

Lydia sat on the hood of Jackson's restored Porsche and looked up at one of the bedroom windows, watching Stiles and Deirdre as they bickered and mocked each other, still engaging in their weird little will they/won't they dance. “Okay,” she sighed, “Plan D. We lock them in a closet and we don't let them out until they man up and admit they're hot for each other. I have put way too much work turning Stiles into someone who doesn't look twelve for it to go to waste.”


End file.
